Sharp
by C3L35714
Summary: Whoever's in charge of the music at this party sucks, so he's tucked on a couch with his friends instead of jamming: Paul, dead-eyed sophomore; Misty, sleeping senior; and a cold coke. "Hey," says Brianna, beaming, and Drew sighs. Adoring fans are one thing. Underclassman stalkers are quite another. Modern AU! High School AU! Contestshipping! The prologue to Sharp: SFC Ch 1!


_**welcome to a very self-indulgent display of contestshipping!**_

**_find the prologue in another one of my fics: Song Fic Collection Ch 1!_**

_**modern au. high school au.**_

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Strobe lights glitter on the floor from the hallway like multicolored pennies in a fountain. Or maybe like gems at the bottom of a fishbowl. It's mesmerizing, especially when combined with the bone-vibrating bass-heavy party music shaking the rest of the house from floor to ceiling and every wall in between.

Normally any party is a good party, but it's a freaking Thursday in March and he is tired. Which is rare. But it's been a long week, and whoever is in charge of the music absolutely sucks. He won't be caught jamming to this garbage any time soon. So he's tucked on a couch with a straight-faced Paul and a cold coke and a sleeping Misty. The game flickers in front of him. He should probably leave soon.

"Hey there, Drew," says Brianna, whose math class he barely TAs for.

"Hi," he says back. She slides over and takes a seat beneath the television. Drew sighs to himself. Adoring fans are one thing. Underclassman stalkers are quite another.

"So," the poor girl says, and he hopes her next lines aren't pulled right off of a WikiHow article on flirting. "Good party, huh?" Hmm.

"Mm," he replies noncommittally. Paul hasn't so much as blinked, which should be unnerving but isn't after all this time. "Having fun?" he drawls, forcing some politeness or else Dawn would smack him.

"I am now," Brianna beams, like his mere presence is enough to counteract the sleeping senior and dead-eyed sophomore in his company.

"Me too," says an angel and Drew's eyes roll back a little as familiar arms slink down the back of the couch and hands come to rest on his shoulders. No, scratch that; her hands close around the collar of his shirt.

He doesn't even have time to greet her properly before the rest of May's torso leans down and she kisses him deeply. Quite deeply, in fact, enough to raise one of his hands on its own accord — on her accord — and clasp her wrist.

"You wanna get out of here?" May asks, and, oh, good, more contrived WikiHow-type lines. But her voice is low and he can hear from the back of her throat a mix of a growl and a laugh because she knows exactly what she's doing.

So Drew minds the pick-up line less, this time.

He opens his mouth to answer and she kisses him again and wow he almost never wants to get off this couch again. The daggers bristling off Paul convince him that it's worth it to haul himself up anyway and step around the couch arm.

Well, Paul, and also the fingernails leaving soft crescents in his skin.

"Later," Drew says, knowing that Paul will literally kill anybody who tries to bother their sleeping redhead friend.

Maybe Brianna says something about school tomorrow. Maybe she doesn't. He can't find it in himself to care either way, not when May's got an arm around his waist and one tangled up with his.

There are no obstacles between that couch and her truck, not if he has anything to say about it. (He doesn't, not really, but it's the thought that counts.) He doesn't even have to open the front door; it's left wide open to let both guests and music mix between the gateway.

As soon as they climb into her truck, he cranks up the beloved seat warmers and she blares her horn a couple times before backing up — she could look over her shoulder a thousand times and still knock into some fool without the warning.

"Thanks for the rescue," he tells her, curling their hands together between the seats. She hums, flicking on the turn signal with her pinky. "Gotta admit, May. I do like that side of you."

She flashes a sharp grin.

"I know."

He squeezes her hand tightly. It seems to fit the night. They're stopped at a red when he lifts their cold and folded hands. He drops a kiss on top.

"Yours," he says simply. Normally, she gives him the same promise, and it's sweet. He adores the way it fills up his lungs. But tonight she meets his eyes wholly and her lips twist in his own usual smirk and he steels himself against a shiver of delight.

"Mine," she whispers, and the light turns green.

* * *

_**eyes on the road, folks. ;)**_


End file.
